Chapter Twenty-two

Baran

Baran walked alongside Darien into the whimsical world of Gingerbread Lane, tucked away in a corner of New York City. The air smelled of spiced molasses and sugar, with a faint hint of peppermint that seemed to seep into his lungs. A sprawling display of candy-coated structures stretched out before them, each gingerbread house more elaborate than the last. Gumdrop chimneys, licorice windowsills, and frosting icicles adorned the miniature homes, creating a kaleidoscope under the strings of lights.

Baran scanned the area with a mix of curiosity and quiet awe. He folded his arms over his chest. The chill of the winter air was invigorating.

“What do you think?” Daddy Darien asked.

“It’s…a lot,” Baran admitted.

Daddy Darien grinned with boyish enthusiasm. “Yeah, it’s a lot. But it’s fun. And I thought we could build one together.” He gestured to a table where kits and candy decorations were laid out.

Baran hesitated for a moment but followed Daddy Darien to the station. They settled into their spots, the hum of cheerful voices and soft holiday music filling the air. Daddy Darien unpacked the kit, sliding pieces of gingerbread toward Baran.

“Here, you do the base,” Daddy Darien said, squeezing a tube of icing into Baran’s hand. “Think of it as…building something sturdy.”

Baran smirked faintly but started assembling the walls, his movements deliberate. “Are you sure you want me to be in charge of the foundation?”

Daddy Darien laughed. “It’s gingerbread. What could go wrong? Besides, if it collapses, we’ll eat the evidence.” The playful banter eased the tension lingering between them as slowly, their gingerbread house took shape. Daddy Darien added some gumdrops along the roofline, his fingers brushing Baran’s occasionally as they reached for the same decorations. Neither pulled away.

Baran’s fingers maneuvered deftly, pressing a gumdrop into place on the roof of the gingerbread house. The scent of cinnamon and sugar swirled in the cold air, mingling with Darien’s laughter as he fussed with frosting. Baran felt an unfamiliar lightness in his chest. Contentment. The anger and hurt he had carried last night felt distant, softened like the dusting snowflakes on the windows outside.

But the moment of peace was interrupted by a twinge of guilt. He should not have run away to think without leaving a message and without telling Daddy Darien. Baran didn’t know how to tell Daddy Darien he wasn’t angry anymore and that he had forgiven him. He stole a glance at Daddy Darien, who was focused intently on affixing a line of candy canes along the edge of the house. The sight made Baran’s heart ache with longing and nervous energy. How was he supposed to bring it up?

He picked up a licorice strip, his thoughts racing faster than his hands could work. What do I even say? Baran twisted the candy between his fingers. I don’t want to sleep in the guest room anymore. What if he thinks it’s too soon? Or I’m being ridiculous? His mind churned with possibilities, each one making his pulse quicken.

“Baran.” Daddy Darien’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “You’ve been quiet for a while. Is something wrong?”

Baran froze, the licorice strip slipping from his hand onto the table. Daddy Darien was looking at him now, his piercing blue eyes searching, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. It was impossible to dodge the question, and maybe…maybe that was for the best.

Taking a breath, Baran forced himself to meet Daddy Darien’s gaze. “No, it’s not that something’s wrong,” he began, his voice faltering at first. “I’ve just been thinking.”

Daddy Darien tilted his head, his expression softening. “Thinking about what?”

Baran hesitated, the words lodged in his throat like a lump of cookie dough. He glanced down at the gingerbread house, then back up at Daddy Darien. “I…I don’t want to sleep in the guest room anymore,” he blurted out. “I mean, I want things to go back to how we were. I want us to go back to how we were.” His cheeks warmed as he added, “I want you to be my Daddy Darien again.”

For a moment, there was only the faint crackle of children’s merry voices in the background. Baran’s stomach churned as he watched Daddy Darien’s face, trying to read his reaction. Then, slowly, Daddy Darien’s lips curved into a smile, soft and warm.

“Baran…” Daddy Darien’s voice was full of affection. He reached out, his frosting-smeared fingers brushing against Baran’s. “I’ve been hoping you’d say that.”

Baran felt his chest unclench, a wave of relief and joy washing over him. As Daddy Darien’s hand closed around his, he let himself smile, his nerves melting away. Together, they returned to the gingerbread house, but now the air between them was different—lighter, warmer, and full of possibility.

When the house was finished—crooked in some places, with more icing on their hands than on the gingerbread—Daddy Darien leaned back and studied it with a lopsided grin. “It’s not perfect, but I like it,” he said.

Baran wiped a smear of frosting from his wrist. “It’s lovely,” he replied.

Daddy Darien’s gaze lingered on Baran. “Kind of like us, huh? Not perfect, but worth the effort.”

Baran stilled, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. He didn’t meet Daddy Darien’s eyes right away, the weight of the words settling between them. Finally, he looked up. “You think we’re worth the effort?” Baran asked, his voice even but tinged with vulnerability.

“I know we are,” Daddy Darien replied. “Look, I messed up. I know that. But I’m here now, and I want to try again—with you. If you’ll let me.”

Baran exhaled slowly, the frost of his breath visible in the cold air. He thought about their argument over his father, the silences, sleeping alone last night and questioning whether they could find their way back to each other. But he also thought about this moment—Daddy Darien’s hand brushing his, the way he still made Baran’s heart beat faster even after everything.

“I want you…Be my daddy,” Baran said finally, his voice steady.

Daddy Darien’s grin widened, relief and gratitude shining in his eyes. “I never stopped being your daddy. I love spending time with you.”

They sat for a moment, the gingerbread house between them, as the noise of Gingerbread Lane faded into the background. For the first time that day, Baran felt something like hope when then got into the car.

“We’re going to stop at the bakery to pick up the cupcakes I ordered for the kids at the shelter.”

“How many?”

“There are fifty kids and ten workers. I bring cupcakes each time I visit.”

“I bet they love that.”

“They do.”

When they reached the parking area, they got out of the car. Baran followed Daddy Darien down the bustling street, the sharp December air biting at his face as they approached the bakery. Inside, the scent of freshly baked bread and sugar wafted toward them, warm and inviting against the cold. Daddy Darien picked up the large order—sixty intricately decorated Christmas cupcakes, each a tiny masterpiece of red and green frosting. They shared the job of carrying the boxes of cupcakes back to the car.

They drove in silence to the placement center, a modest two-story brick building surrounded by bare trees strung with a few faded holiday lights.

Inside, the air changed. The smell of cleaning products mingled with the faint aroma of cafeteria food. The entryway was simple but festive; a small Christmas tree adorned with mismatched ornaments stood by the reception desk, where a tired-looking receptionist greeted them with a warm smile. The walls were adorned with cheerful crayon drawings taped haphazardly, creating a collage.

Baran and Darien carried the cupcakes and gingerbread house they had built. A lady named Mary welcomed Darien as if she had known him for years. She led them through a maze of hallways until they reached the cafeteria. The room had sturdy metal tables and chairs arranged in long neat rows. The walls were painted a pale blue, scuffed in places, and dotted with posters reminding the children to “Dream Big” and “Be Kind.”

Children were everywhere—some perched on benches and others huddled in groups, their laughter and chatter filling the space. They ranged in age from toddlers to teenagers. Some wore hand-me-down clothes a size too big; others clutched stuffed animals that had seen better days. Mary blew a whistle, and everything turned quiet.

“Did you all write your Santa lists?” Daddy Darien asked the children.

A chorus of “Yes!” erupted, the enthusiasm so loud it made Baran smile despite himself.

“Great! Baran here will collect them,” Daddy Darien announced, giving him a gentle nudge forward.

Baran hesitated, then moved through the rows of tables, bending to take sheets of paper from eager little hands. Some were crumpled, others carefully folded, and a few had smudged handwriting or misspelled words that made his heart ache. As he moved, he caught glimpses of what they had written—requests for toys, books, warm clothes, or even wishes that couldn’t be bought.

When he picked one from a little girl, she said, “Thank you, Baran. Can you adopt me?”

“I wish I could, but I’m still in school. What do you want for Christmas?”

“I want two dolls.”

“Did you write it down?”

“Yes.”

The atmosphere tugged at Baran in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d never been to a placement center before, and seeing these innocent children locked up in this building broke his heart.

Daddy Darien, meanwhile, floated around the room like he belonged there, crouching to talk to a shy little girl clutching a tattered doll or ruffling the hair of a boy who tried to show off a hastily drawn picture of a reindeer. His demeanor made everyone light up, and for a moment, Baran was struck by how natural it seemed. Like Darien had done this a hundred times before.

Baran glanced around the room as he folded the collected Santa lists into a neat bundle in a basket Mary gave him, then he handed the basket to Darien. He realized he’d remember this moment for a long time, the bittersweet hum of it settling deep in his chest. He aspired to be Daddy Darien’s forever helper.